Rescue the Boys
by Aphroditegoddess
Summary: Peter returns at the age of seventeen, only to find that the lost boys are really lost. He's on a mission to save them with a new character at his side.
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note  
  
The first thing I would like to address is the rating: although it is categorized with a PG13 rating, this only because I wanted to leave myself creative space. As an author, as a person, I hate cornering myself with certain categories and particularities. By giving this piece an PG13 rating, I can maneuver myself any which way I please. The rating isn't a promise of debauchery, though, merely a warning…  
  
One other thing one might want to know about this piece is that, although it is Never-Never Land, remember that the world I portray is more than just an island of ageless people: it is an entire planet. It is a three dimensional world, with new characters, new places, and new adventures. The tale takes place four years after Peter and Wendy's first adventure.  
  
Peter did indeed live in the real world for four years, before returning to Never-Never Land. When he finally returned to Never-Never Land, he was seventeen. His love for Wendy was bittersweet. He loved her as the girl she once was, and couldn't understand the woman that she was trying to become. Having spent so much time ageless, he couldn't understand his own changes, either. Things in his New World were cold and distant; he felt alone and abandoned. He didn't want to become a man, and, having nothing left to live for in the Land of Reality, he wished himself home…  
  
***  
  
Introduction: Peter Comes Home  
  
When his eyes fluttered open for the first time in what must have been hours, he felt the ache. It was a slow thudding, sore pain that seemed to ebb and flow under every breath he made. He slowly rolled onto his back, feeling his normal senses begin to take hold of his body, overturning and taking precedence over the pain. He looked at the sky, beginning to feel a sense of home and hearth return to him. The sky was a slate gray, and dark clouds were billowing in from the east, ominous precipitous mountains oppressing his native soil, threatening rain. The moisture was thick on the air, almost palpable.  
  
He was home, he thought.  
  
Peter pulled himself up from the dirt, coltish on his legs as the blood rushed to his head. He began to look around himself, trying to place himself on the geography of the island. At one point, he had known every tree and bush, crevice and crag on the island…  
  
Now, he thought, he could barely remember the general shape of the island. The island was fairly circularly, roughly hewn from the waves of sea, with a large crest-shaped bay cut near the south end. Below him, was a dry and choked creek bed. Peter's memory, faded by his absence, seemed to trickle back to him. The dry creek bed was in the center of the island, and if followed, would lead him right back to his old den.  
  
The creek bed won't be dry for very long, he thought, looking at the sky. As if to reply to his thoughts, a jolt of lightening and booming thunder commenced a sudden downpour of rain. It was a cold rain that immediately soaked into Peter's skin, numbing his flesh to ice. The rain didn't even damper the ember that was Peter's heart, though. For the first time in four years, Peter felt like he had a home again. He was going to the one place that he knew he would always belong. ***  
  
The old tree was unmistakable. It's crawling branches, reaching for the sky in the most roundabout ways, eventually becoming entangled with itself in a mess of branches and sticks and thorns. The roots were gnarled and bulbous, erupting from the earth at irregular intervals. How the small ones would trip on those roots! Yelping with all their might, pouting, kicking the tree in their youthful frustrations…  
  
--Something wasn't right. The tree seemed dark and skeletal, as though it was not the home of his beloved lost boys, but a hollowed vessel. He opened the door and saw immediately that the darkened room had not been habituated for some time. The hearth was cold, not even a glowing coal. The lanterns were dark and overturned on the ground. The beds had no blankets, and the whole place seemed out of order.  
  
Peter knew that time passed with a different flow in his land. He had been gone for four years in the Land of Reality, but how long had he really been gone from his home? Enough time for the remaining boys to leave the place that they had known for so long and find a new place? Enough time for them to argue, as boys do, and disband themselves? Enough time for something else to have happened to them…something worse?  
  
"Oh, boys…" Peter said aloud, as he knelt down to touch a tousled and dusty teddy bear. "What happened to you?"  
  
"A lot," replied a voice from behind him. 


	2. A Meeting

Peter was reluctant to turn around. A cool breeze flew in from the tempestuous fates outside and caught the small hairs on the back of his neck.  
  
"Face me, Peter," the deeply rich voice commanded.  
  
Peter turned. Before him was a pale young woman wearing a crimson cloak. Her dark, black curls whipped around her face as a forceful gale billowed behind her from the open doorway. Her penetrating eyes were deep discs of mahogany, surrounded by a halo of black. For a moment, Peter couldn't find his breath.  
  
"How do you know my name?" he asked, nearly hypnotized.  
  
"My mother…and old fearie tales." She looked to almost say something more, but restrained herself. Instead, she asked hastily, "You're looking for the boys, correct?"  
  
"Yes! Do you know where they are? What happened here? How long--"  
  
"There is little time to talk," the woman interrupted. "Simply follow me. You may ask questions when we get to safety."  
  
"But…what is your name?" Peter asked, feeling confused and slightly frazzled.  
  
"Eve. Now follow me, and fall silent!"  
  
Peter obediently followed Eve out into the rain. She quickly led them off of the well-trodden path and into the forest. She moved expertly through the undergrowth, sidestepping obstacles in her path and avoiding overhanging flora. Peter, on the other hand, moved clumsily: bustling betwixt the trees like a rhinoceros and swatting away obtrusive vines and plants using his arm as a machete. Peter quickly lost his sense of direction about the island, resolving finally to blindly follow Eve. Slowly, he began to regain his "forest legs", consciously using his peripheral vision as an aid to eschew the forest debris.  
  
After an hour of traipsing through the wilderness, Eve held up her hand as a silent command to halt. She made soft dove call, and what sounded like a turkey garbled back. Eve pressed past two ungainly and tangled jasmine bushes to reveal a clearing. Small Indian tents were scattered about randomly. The natives milled about the area: some crouching over crackling fires, others bustling in and out of tents, others still chattering to each other in some indiscernible, foreign tongue.  
  
"This is my village--my family," she said quietly.  
  
Peter looked at her quizzically. "You don't look like them…" he said cautiously.  
  
"My mother was a native, my father was not." There was sadness hanging in her eyes, something he couldn't quite reach. "Come inside my tent," she said. "We will talk." Peter entered the little tent and looked about. The innards of it were furnished in hides and leathers. A small fire in the center of the circular teepee warmed it well, braving away the cold and moisture outside. Peter sat on one of the furs, and Eve sat on a fur parallel to his, on the other side of the fire.  
  
Eve began: "My mother knew you when this was your home. She told me about you long ago…on her deathbed. Her name was Tigerlilly." Peter's face filled with recognition, the warm embrace of his memories of Tigerlilly suddenly bringing about a pang in his heart. How he missed her!  
  
Eve continued, "I was born east of here in our first village by the cliffs. I grew there, with the Lost Boys as my companions. I did grow, back then, now I do not. I still do not understand why although my years are near to forty-three, my body is only that of a sixteen year old. Anyway, after nearly ten years (about one year in your time), my mother died." Eve paused for a moment.  
  
"I'm sorry about her. At one point in time, I loved her very much," he said, with a genuine ache in his voice.  
  
"The Lost Boys found a new leader while you were away: a fiery boy by the name of Rufio. He led the Boys in a valiant, although bit ambitious, attempt to depose Captain Hook."  
  
"And was he successful?" Peter asked with concern.  
  
"He was…but in the effort, he lost his own life."  
  
Just then a woman entered the tent with two bowls of steaming soup. She placed the bowls in front of Peter and Eve, and exited the tent with a quick bow.  
  
"You must be hungry," Eve said. "Please, eat." Eve bowed in silence before drinking from the bowl. Dimly, Peter remembered this as an old Indian ritual. As he sipped from his bowl of soup, he marveled at Eve's beauty. In the firelight, she seemed almost a goddess. Her hair was the most amazing ocean of curls that framed her small face. She looked so different from the natives, he thought. He saw the resemblance of her mother in her eyes, though. They had the same vibrancy, the same intensity.  
  
Noticing that Peter was staring, Eve put down her bowl of soup and continued with her tale. "It was all very good that the Captain was killed. The end of his reign brought many celebrations to all of this land, not just to us natives. But our celebrations were short-lived.  
  
The crew and followers of the Captain were in confusion. They needed a leader for their survival, and they were frantic. Some of the crewmembers took one of the Captain's three ships and sailed to a land far west of here. The men remaining looked high and low for someone to fill the Captain's shoes. In there desperation, they did find someone: a sadistic tyrant who far surpassed the Captain. A person I'm sure you'll remember…" 


	3. John Steals Away

Author's Note: This symbol: /|\ denotes the beginning and end of a flashback. The three asterisks (***) denote a move forward in time during the flashback.

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"John," Peter said in disbelief. "John Darling?"

"How he got here, I don't know," Eve replied in a whisper. "All I know is that he's been tormenting this land ever since his return…"

Peter's jaw went rigid. A light of recognition ignited on Peter's face. "Oh, God," he said in consternation. "It was me. I'm the reason he is here."

/|\

Peter took one last look around the interior of the tree. He breathed in deeply, smelling earthy scent that he may possibly never smell again. 

"Peter!" Wendy called. "Peter, we must be going! The boys want to go home so desperately."

"Speak for yourself," whined John in the backdrop. "I'd wager I could stay here forever and never get tired of it."

Peter looked towards the open doorway, with annoyance furrowed on his brow. "Hold on!" he called outside to the bunch of children milling about. "I've just got to grab one more thing." He snatched up a leather purse about the size of his fist. Peter opened it to verify the contents: pixie dust. _A little insurance, just in case the Land of Reality turns out to be a mistake, _Peter thought. 

Peter walked outside, winking from the sunlight. The children looked at him with faces of pure woe. The smaller ones turned to away to whimper to themselves silently. _Their faces_, thought Peter, _they need me to lead them. They need me to protect them_. 

A small boy (still pudgy with baby fat and even wobbly on his legs), called Quirky, hesitantly walked up to Peter, all the while wringing his hands and chewing his lip. "Don't leave us, Pan," he said softly to Peter. "We need you to look after us." 

"I must," Peter said simply. Looking at the small boy nearly changed Peter's mind. He almost didn't have the heart to go through with leaving them all. _But no, _he thought,_ the Lost Boys must be on their own now._ Peter looked over to Wendy. She was bent over little Michael, wiping his face with a yellow handkerchief. She smiled maternally at Michael's glowering face and gave a little laugh. Peter liked the sound of her laughter; it reminded him of wind chimes or jingling bells. He liked the way that Wendy made him feel: like he was less than a god, but more than a boy was. She made him feel…real. 

"Goodbye, boys," said Wendy to the group. "Are you sure no more of you would like to come with us?" None of the boys came forward. 

"Lost Boys, this is my last order as your leader," began Peter, with authority. "Your new leader is Pillpod. Treat him just the way you've treated me." Peter thought for another moment, trying to consolidate all of his thoughts into a few departing statements. Finding no words materializing in his mind, he added, "If you run into trouble, just send Tinkerbell. She'll get me."

"I'll stay for you, Peter," John said hastily after this. "I'll watch the boys for you, and take care of them, just as if I were you."

"Of course you will not!" shrieked Wendy in horror, her voice rising into an arch. "Mother needs you home. That is where you belong. Now stop trying to be valiant, for it shall only land you in hot water."

John clamped his mouth shut and stood in a rigid silence. Peter would have liked to think John's outburst an attempt at valiancy, but he saw something else in his eyes. Behind the cold irises of a brilliant blue, he saw some other motives. He shrugged off his diversions, though, and concentrated on the moment.

"Now, where's Tink?" Peter said. 

"I'm here," said a bitter voice from the branches of the tree overhead. Down from behind some lush leaves flitted a pixie, the size of a thumb. She wore nothing, but there was no bashfulness about her. She had blazing red hair clawing down her back and overflowing her whole body. And if one looked close enough, one would notice a pair of brilliant violet eyes, continually filled with defiance and fire. She hovered above Peter's nose, her transparent wings batting softly and creating a soft displacement of air, as that of a lover's blow upon the ear of her beloved. 

"Tink, you know I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to you," said Peter with admonition in his tone.

"I know," said Tink flatly.

"Forgive me for leaving you, pixie," Peter ordered.

Tink answered with her silent rage.

"Well," resolved Peter, "I guess this is goodbye then." He waved his final farewell to all the boys. Peter, Wendy, Michael, and John all linked hands. An irate Tinkerbell hovered above all of them, sprinkling a bit of her pixie dust. That was the ticket between the two worlds: pixie dust. One could always fly in Neverland, but it was the pixie dust that got one out. As the children floated through the sky as though they were mermaids gliding just below the surface of the sea, Peter looked back at them all. It was sad to see them go, he knew this, but there was so much more to the world! Wendy, Michael, and even John were his new Lost Boys now. 

Tinkerbell looked up to the sky. She kept watching even after the children had disappeared through the wisps of clouds and were no longer visible. "I'll never forget you, Peter…I'll never forgive you either…"

***

John's Journal Entry

3 weeks: Post-Neverland

That bastard! God, I hate him. He's just so cocky. My own father enjoys his company better than mine. Wendy bows to his every whim. Even Michael looks at him as though he were looking on a God. Well, damn him. DAMN him!!! How dare he come into my home and take all I've ever had for myself? He thinks himself ruler of this place. Today father gave the nursery to Peter, promising to convert it to a proper bedroom soon. I still can't believe it. Father said that Peter was almost a man and that I should be obliged to share a room with Michael. He thinks he can waltz right into any place in the universe and claim it as his own…but I'll show him. 

Before we left, I saw Peter with a leather pouch tied around his waist. If it's the pouch that I'm thinking of, then it is filled to the brim of pixie dust. I'm leaving this damned pit of hell. I'm going to find that blasted stuff and go back to Neverland. I'm going to claim it for my own.

***

The moon hung high above the city of London, perched as a pearl in a sky strung with diamonds. The city, permeating the land as far as the eye could see, was a stagnant mess of buildings, littered with a few lights here and there (the late night drunkards, John's own father included). Sure that the household was deep in sleep, John alighted from his bed, lit a stub of candle, and grabbed a previously packed knapsack. The house was cold, as it was nearing autumn, and he shivered slightly as he crept down the hallway (half from the cold and half from his nerves). 

As he slowly creaked open the door, the dim light of John's candle fell into the darkened room, illuminating the few inches in front of his nose. For some reason the room seemed cavernous and empty without the three beds and children's toys. John averted his thoughts. His days of childhood had ended when he realized in his heart that his parents were fools laden with the ideals of hypocrites. 

"Peter?" asked a slurred voice from the inky black. "Is that you?" The voice was muffled. It was John's father; he was drunk. 

"No father," whispered John. "Peter fell asleep downstairs while reading a book. You hadn't the heart or the strength to carry him up, so you let him sleep. Remember?"

"Oh, aye." Mr. Darling lit a small lamp that was resting near him. He was reclined on the window seat. He looked out the window, unto the city sprawled below him. "You know I once run away from home when I was a wee lad?" John shook his head. "Aye," he laughed. It was a drunken laugh, heavy with the contents of the bottle in his hand. John could see his father's eyes were rimmed with red, and his face was flushed. "It's a hard world out there, son," Mr. Darling continued to banter. "Aye, a hard world."

"Go to bed, father," John said softly, not pitying the broken man before him. "You disgust me."

"Aye, son," replied his father, suddenly sober, "but just remember from whom you were sprung. It was I. I made you. You have a piece o' me in you. Don't you ever forget that."

John turned away from his father as the man stumbled out the door, holding the doorframe for support before continuing on his way down the hall. As soon as his father was safely out the door, John began searching the room. He checked the drawers, the cedar chest, and the armoire: all unsuccessful. "Bloody hell," John cursed to himself. He was about to exit the room when a reddish box in the corner caught his eye. It was Wendy's sewing box. Hurriedly, he broke the lock and opened it up. There was the pouch. Making sure he had his journal with him, packed in his knapsack with a few other small items, John opened the pouch. Fearing he'd soon be caught, he sprinkled a dandelion fluff's worth of pixie dust on his head and returned the pouch to its proper place. 

John felt himself become weightless and airy. For a moment, he became nauseous and nervous. He went to the window and began floating out into the night sky. Softly at first, he felt the gravity of Neverland pulling at his body, tugging him towards the one place he had been obsessing over for the past two months. It would soon be his, he thought. It would soon be his.

/|\


End file.
